


My, What a Big Axe You Have

by razz



Series: My, What a Big Axe You Have [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is a Lumberjack and He's OK, Human Derek Hale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:31:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razz/pseuds/razz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by gyzym's post '<b>teen wolf fics i want so much i could cry:</b>'<br/> <br/><i>'…a derek/stiles human AU where derek’s a lumberjack?'</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gyzym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyzym/gifts), [kalakirya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalakirya/gifts).
  * Inspired by [teen wolf fics i want so much i could cry](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/17351) by gyzym. 
  * Inspired by [[Podfic] Teen Wolf not!fic podfics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/560808) by [kalakirya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalakirya/pseuds/kalakirya). 



> I came across gyzym's post/prompt/rant about this while listening to the podfic read by kalakirya. Check it out!
> 
> I'm not sure if I'll actually write more, since gyzym pretty much wrote it already, and this was more of a slice of life, 'I think those arguments would go something like this', type effort. But, because I'm so tickled pink by gyzym's set-up, I might feel the need to write a second chapter. So I'm leaving it as a multi-chapter fic.
> 
> Edit: Yep, turns out multi-chapters was a good call.

Derek is coming out of the general store, when he notices there's someone beside his truck. It isn't someone he recognizes. He's nothing special to look at; bland plaid shirt, lanky - and he appears to be agitated, if the way he's pacing and waving his arms back and forth are anything to go by.

As he gets closer, he realizes the guy has a cell phone pressed to his ear, "-Unbelievable! What am I supposed to do with half a view? No, Dad, I don't think I'm over-reacting, it was supposed to be relaxing here, there were supposed to be, and I quote, 'soothing forested scenery.' I want my soothing views! No, you're right of course they can't control land they don't own. It's just that, Dad, it's just that it said- Oh. No, that's fine. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He turns around abruptly and yells to see Derek standing behind him. The guy nearly falls over but catches himself. "What the holy hell! Dude, what are you even-? You know what, back-off! I've seen all sorts of horror movies and- oh my god is that an axe? Are you seriously wielding an axe?"

Derek looks down at the hatchet he's just bought to replace his old one. "What's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with _me_? You're the one with the creepy, lurking axe-murderer vibe, listening in on other people's phone conversations." 

"You're in my way." Derek growls. 

"I'm in _your_ way?" the guy begins in the same tone, then cuts himself off as he follows Derek's gaze to his truck. "I'm in your way. Right, of course. Enjoy your axe collection, I'm just gonna run for my life - I mean, get out of your way. I'm getting out of your way, right now." And he does.

Derek frowns as he watches the guy back away a few steps, then dash into a beat up jeep. He doesn't really think about the guy and his huge eyes after that. At all.

* * *

The next night, he's three drinks in and feeling pretty good about life. Erica smiles indulgently at him from behind the bar, and he flashes her a quick smile. The door chimes clatter, and his mood takes a dive when he sees who it is. "I do not have a vibe." He tells Erica. Erica looks questioningly at him, but he turns away from her. Before he realizes he'd made a decision to move, he finds himself in the newcomer's space. 

"I do not have a vibe," he announces. Oh look, there are the wide eyes again. He scowls. 

The guy looks completely blind-sided - for half a second. "You totally have a vibe. If there were talent scouts looking for someone to play a bad-tempered axe-murderer in the woods, you'd have the part, hands down. They wouldn't even make you read for it. Just take one look at your frowny eyebrows and give it to you, before you went postal on their asses." 

And fuck, Derek might be a little drunk, because he gets into a shouting match with this total stranger. There's barely any space between their faces as they argue. 

"I work here, I live here, I do not have the fucking vibe of a horror movie villain."

"Could have fooled me, Mr. Frowny McLurk-Face." The other man sing-songs in an obnoxious voice. "Maybe you should have thought of that before you went around hefting axes and generally looking like you'd like to gut random people you meet in parking lots."

"Hefting axes is my job, I heft axes every day."

"Dude, are you agreeing with me now? Should I be backing away slowly again?" 

"Maybe you shouldn't go around insulting complete strangers."

"Maybe I wouldn't, if they didn't sneak up on me, holding an axe."

"It was a hatchet. Don't be a baby."

"Axe, hatchet; what's the difference? Not something you want to turn around to find at your back."

"You were by my truck. You were in my way!" 

"And now, _you_ are in _my_ way. And incidentally, axe-less. So, you know what? You can just move yourself this time. I think I could probably take you, now that you don't have your little friend." He waves his hand, "Shoo, shoo, I'd really like to get to the bar now."

Derek growls and rocks forward with no real plan in mind. The guy yelps, flinches, and stumbles back into the door. It swings open under his weight, and he goes down with comical large eyes and flailing arms. 

Derek smirks for a minute. Though, after a beat, he feels a little guilty and pokes his head out the door to inquire, "Are you alright?"

"I don't think that's the proper response of a serial killer." 

Derek huffs and lets the door swing closed again.

* * *

The next encounter happens at his job site. 

"You!" It's called out dramatic and accusatory, complete with a showy pointed finger. "I should have known you were one of them!"

Derek kind of wants to look behind himself just to be a dick, because he's positive the guy isn't talking to anyone else. But he just sighs. "Can we not do this now? You insulted me, I scared you; we're even." 

"We are **not** even! You're one of them! With your grumpy lurking and your chopping down trees in innocent people's soothing views!" 

Derek remembers the conversation he'd overheard from the other day. "Seriously? How is that my fault? I didn't sell you a place overlooking a timberland forest. What can you complain about, anyway? We stagger the trees we cut, and we reseed."

"Wait, really?" He looks genuinely surprised. "So, this isn't just the beginning of a devastating deforestation documentary, where at the end they show all the sad little forest creatures, displaced by the evil lumber companies? I mean, I would have done more research, but this whole thing has been a little spur of the moment. And you kinda look like you're one of those people who make the forest creatures sad." 

Derek glowers at the man some more, because really, what do you even say to remarks like these? 

"No, wait that's not fair. Maybe you're a really nice guy, who just happens to have an unhealthy axe collection."

Derek hefts his axe, looking between it and the guy, and back again. He rolls his eyes, "I'm a lumberjack."

"Obviously." 

"I use axes for my job."

"So, really, you're just an axe-collecting, tree-hugging lumberjack." His deadpan is actually pretty impressive. "Yeah, I can buy that." He holds out his hand, "I'm Stiles, by the way."

Derek stares at the hand. It's pale but calloused. Instead of shaking it, he says, "I'm not a tree-hugger." Stiles laughs and moseys away, humming. Derek tells himself he doesn't even recognize the song, so screw him.

* * *

Stiles takes to showing up at their work site a lot. Derek ignores him. Except when he doesn't, and they start insulting each other again. Or when Derek tosses him a hard hat, or criticizes his shoes. 

Safety is a serious concern around his work.

Stiles looks ridiculous in a hard hat. Actually, Stiles looks ridiculous most of the time. Derek takes satisfaction in this fact, as he definitely doesn't notice Stiles' eyelashes. Which are ridiculously thick.

When they cross paths at the general store, Derek sneers at the microwave dinners in Stiles' cart. When they literally bump into each other at the bar, Stiles mocks his drink choice. Derek belatedly tips it so that it makes a wet spot down the front of Stiles pants, "Whoops."

When they pull up next to each other at the only stoplight by the entrance to the Interstate, they argue through four green lights, until Margy Potter pulls up behind Stiles and lays on her horn for half a minute. 

Stiles calls him by the most ridiculous nicknames; Moody Jack, Mr. Lumpkins, Appleblossom, Sourpatch, Walnut, and Maple Syrup Bar, to name a few. Derek retaliates by getting into Stiles' space and growling at him. He may not be as eloquent, but what he lacks in words, he makes up for in looming, unspoken threat. 

Stiles asks him if he took acting classes or if he was born with natural talent. "Dude, you definitely have a vibe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About lumberjacks: Okay, so I really don't know much about lumberjacks either, ha ha.
> 
> About a (possible) future chapter: I guess it would have to involve the emotions gyzym talked about. When I put it like that, it sounds kind of intimidating...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has driven Derek up a tree. Literally. Well, he was up there already, but Derek's not coming down until Stiles has left. It's not like he wants to converse with that obnoxious little cretin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Still no emotions, just a tidbit to hold you guys over.

Stiles has driven Derek up a tree. Literally. Well, he was up there already, but Derek's not coming down until Stiles has left. It's not like he wants to converse with that obnoxious little cretin. In fact, if he never sees him again, he won't care. Wait, is that a new pair of steel toed shoes?

"Those are the stupidest boots I've ever seen," Derek laughs from his perch.

"Oh my god!" Stiles shouts, half ducking and half falling over. From the ground he yells up, "Okay, I know we've talked about your lurking tendencies, but seriously? This one is new."

"Don't tell me, they were all out of brown boots."

Stiles looks petulant, then aggressively casual, like he meant to find himself lying down on the ground. "You know, you are so unoriginal. Don't you ever get the urge to mix it up? I mean, everyone has brown boots." He kicks his feet out before himself and crosses his legs defiantly.

"It's okay, you can admit it." Derek grins.

Stiles looks away, "I like them. And it has nothing to do with them being on sale. For fifty percent off. You do realize that they're taking shameless advantage of your need for protective footwear? Those prices are totally unreasonable!"

"Were they even in the men's section?" Derek smirks. "They're pink."

"They're something called 'Cherry Red'. And you know that's just a stereo type, right? Men can wear pink. I'm very comfortable with my manly masculinity. Very. I can totally pull off pink. _If_ they were pink - which they aren't."

There's a long doubtful silence.

"Actually, wait. Hold on. How did you even get up there?" Stiles changes the subject, rolling to his feet.

Derek shrugs, "Same way I'll get down." He starts to make his way downward. He slides a bit at the end and drops to the ground in a crouch. "Climb."

"You climbed all the way up there? No way! Prove it."

Derek just glares. "No."

He claps his hands together once, "I knew it. You can't." There's nothing Derek hates more than a smug Stiles. 

He gets up in his personal space, "I don't need to prove anything to you."

"It's okay you can admit it," he mimics, "you got lifted up there by one of those cherry pickers, for a joke."

"I can do it, but I won't be a performing monkey for you."

"Do you just have stage-fright? Hesitation? Tummy butterflies? Tree-climbing aphonia paralytica?" he trills.

"No!"

"Oh man, you totally do. Or you can't at all. Which is-"

"Fine." Derek growls and climbs up the tree as fast as he can. He's pretty good at it, and he knows he makes it look effortless. Like a long-limbed wolf, or other quadruped, out for a run. 

"-it?" Stiles finishes uncertainly. "Wow, were you part gorilla in another life? That would definitely explain the eyebrows."

 _Now_ , Stiles has literally driven Derek up a tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure you shouldn't try this at home. Lumberjacks use harnesses for safety. Imagine Derek is wearing one. I just left it out, because I'm not entirely sure how it works. Apparently, there are schools and qualified professionals who could teach you how to climb trees properly. If you are so inclined.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott says stuff that makes Derek have some feels. Allison gets a dog. There might be a mix up about a pagan orgy somewhere in there.

Scott is giggling when Derek's getting ready to leave the site, and he isn't watching where he steps. Derek shoulders him gently aside before he can topple over a root. Scott glances at the root and then grins hugely, "Oh, thanks."

Derek returns the smile with a shake of his head. "What's so funny?"

"Allison adopted a stray from the pound yesterday. She just called me to help her with him." Derek raises an eyebrow and waits, "He's gotten himself stuck in her underwear drawer." Scott starts giggling again. Derek cracks a smile.

"How did that happen?" 

"I have no idea dude! You should come over, we're having spaghetti."

Derek is tempted, but, "Shouldn't you ask Allison?" The sheriff has a sweet disposition most of the time, but she also has a temper you don't want to be on the wrong side of. 

Scott gives the impression of a confused puppy, "Dude, you can come over any time. Allison's cool with it. No, dude, I'm serious, why are you raising your eyebrow? She said to invite you." 

Derek shakes his head again to cover for the warm feeling in his chest. "Spaghetti sounds good."

When they arrive, Scott feels the need to have Allison confirm that Derek is always welcome at their house. Derek pretends he isn't blushing. "Told ya," Scott says.

The dog is wedged in the smallest drawer of Allison's dresser and not happy about it. He snarls and snaps at Allison, but when Scott and Derek grab him, he settles right down. 

It takes two screw drivers and a hammer, but they get the dog out. Whereupon, he immediately scrambles onto the counter and manages to roll in the leftover tomatoes Allison had cut up for the sauce. 

Scott and Derek are trying not to laugh as she chases him out the door. Derek is a master of the straight face, but Scott fails miserably until Allison finally smiles in spite of herself. She pouts and makes him give her a hug. 

"Stupid dog," Allison grumbles, but Scott seems to have broken her temper.

Derek laughs suddenly, then stops as they look at him in surprise. He's a little surprised himself. "No sorry, I was just thinking that Scott has better puppy eyes than the dog."

Allison laughs her agreement, while Scott grumbles halfheartedly. Allison gives Derek a warm smile and orders Scott to set the table. 

"What, you aren't going to make Derek help?" Scott jokes with a mock groan. 

"Derek's a guest." 

"No, he has a standing invitation now, so he's family."

Allison grins, "He's got you, Derek. Now you'll have to do the dishes."

Derek ducks his head and agrees in a mumble. His cheek muscles kind of hurt from grinning.

 

Later, Derek is on his way out when the smell hits him. "Uh, Allison, I think your dog found a skunk." 

"What?" she shrieks. The dog paws at it's nose and whines. Scott claps a hand over his mouth, but he starts shaking as the dog takes a look at Allison's angry posture and takes off running.

Allison chases after him with a curse. It's not very dark yet, but Derek and Scott still exchange a concerned look, before they join the chase.

The dog is a runner, he gets all the way to the work site before they manage to corner him. By that point Scott, who made the lucky tackle and is holding the smelly creature, makes the suggestion of bathing him in the creek instead of carrying him back. 

Allison agrees and runs back home while Derek and Scott take turns stripping to their boxers or holding the dog, then both drag it into the creek. The dog is tricky, it keeps trying to escape, but they hold it until Allison returns with cleaning supplies. 

Derek hadn't even thought about how close they must be to Stiles house. 

"Oh my god! Are you murdering that dog? Are you naked? What the hell, I don't even want to know." A window slams shut. 

Allison and Scott burst into giggles. There's the sound of a door bursting open, "Seriously! Are you having some kind of pagan orgy in my creek? That would be hot except for the whole sacrificing a dog part."

"It's not your creek," Derek retorts.

"That's the part you choose to address?" Stiles boggles at the dog they're still scrubbing at.

"Is that spaghetti sauce? And," he tries to sniff the air but gags. "Eughuhk, _what is that smell?_ "

Derek can't help it, this whole thing is ridiculous, he starts to laugh. Allison and Scott are no help they just keep giggling. 

Eventually, Derek manages, "Obviously you've witnessed more pagan orgies than you have dog baths."

Stiles stares at them but finally admits he can guess what's going on. He still settles on the bank to question Derek about his relationships with dogs and midnight pagan rituals.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter telling the beginning of Scott and Stiles' epic bromance. Puns.

On Saturday, Scott and Allison are at the diner near the rest stop when Allison is called away to help with a livestock dispute. Scott snickers, like he always does when livestock and her job cross paths. Allison suppresses a giggle, with a roll of her eyes. Ever since the issue last year…It's a long story. 

Scott notices Stiles (who has just gotten a stack of pancakes bigger than his head) throwing them a questioning look from across the diner. Scott waves at him, recognizing him from the work site and their escapade with Allison's new dog. 

Allison smiles and heads out. Scott gives Stiles a hopeful look. He hates eating alone. Stiles grins back and gestures at the opposite side of his booth. "Join me, good sir." 

Scott grins and hurries to plop down across from him. "Hey! Stiles, right? You were the one teasing Derek about bestiality when we were trying to get Tomato cleaned up in the creek."

Stiles laughs, "Tomato?"

"Yeah, the whole reason he was outside was because he rolled in Allison's tomatoes. And then, we had to rub a whole bunch more tomato sauce into him to get rid of the smell. So-" Scott waffles his head back and forth as he trails off. "It seems like a good fit." 

Stiles gives him an approving look, "Sounds like a great name for him."

"Right? It fits him way better than my old first choice," Scott pauses to build the suspense, "Log Jam. Cause he's round and squat like a log. And got stuck in Allison's dresser the first day we got him." 

Stiles snorts, "He is more of a 'Tomato' personality. But dude!" He bounces in the booth enthusiastically, "Props for the pun!"

One way or another, breakfast devolves into a contest to see who can come up with the most puns or jokes. 

They get the obligatory ones, like 'Sep-tiiiimber!' and 'By it's bark!' out of the way. Scott thinks Stiles is funny as hell, even when his are jokes are obvious like, "Why did the tree trunk get in trouble? Because it was being knotty!" because his gestures and facial expressions make every joke ten times funnier. Especially, when they're a little more original; "Who won? The tree or the werewolf? The tree; it's bark was worse than his bite!" 

He's really glad he's finally taken the time to talk to Stiles, instead of just watching him and Derek snark at each other, as amusing as that always is. He thinks they could easily be really good bros!

Scott runs out of really pertinent jokes and starts using vaguely related ones like, "What did the fish say when it swam into a concrete wall? Dam!"

Stiles takes longer to give up, "What's long, narrow and sticky? A stick!" And a longer story, with the punchline: 'Never try to pick up chicks with a bear behind."

When they move on to pickup lines, Stiles throws an over-the-top smarmy look at the syrup bottle, "Hello there, I couldn't help but notice your spread."

When Derek walks into the diner, Scott is laughing so hard, he's shaking. Stiles looks up from where he's pretending to make out with the Mrs. Butterworth's syrup bottle. "Hey there, Maple Syrup Bar, check out these sweet curves." Derek takes in the scene before him, blinks and asks the waitress, Margy, if he can get breakfast to go. Meanwhile, Scott falls out of the booth, holding his sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit to googling most of the jokes, but I either put my own spin on them, or they were really common, so I'm not gonna source them directly. However, if you're looking for more, good key word searches are; tree jokes, lumberjack jokes, and boy scout puns.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...feelings?

It happens during a freak, flash flood. One minute, it's drizzling like it has been on and off all day. The next, Derek can barely see more than two feet in front of him. The ground was already water logged, now the soil is mixing with knee deep rushing water. There's a crack and the sound of a tree falling when it shouldn't be moving at all. 

A crane, lifting a neighboring tree, tips forward with an ominous creaking sound. The falling tree's loosed roots has pulled up enough dirt to create a watery sinkhole under it. The crane's treads are spinning and spraying uselessly, unable to get enough traction.

Derek flings a rope around a tree and uses it as a brace. The guy scrambling from inside the crane grabs his outstretched hand. Derek gets a grip on the guy and pulls him clear of the crane, but Scott, who's on the other side gets caught in a tangle of sinking branches. 

The crane operator slogs away, yelling about something. His words are ripped away by the wind. Derek's so distracted by Scott's plight, he doesn't hear the large branch that nearly takes off his own head. One minute he's headed for the hole, the next he's on the soaked ground, in a tangle of limbs; Stiles' limbs, thankfully, and not the branch he felt pass the side of his face as Stiles yanked him away. 

Stiles kicks free of him and starts toward Scott himself. But there are still branches falling, and Boyd is already lifting Scott free. He bodily drags Stiles out of range of yet another falling branch. 

Stiles fights him the whole way, yelling and spitting mad, until Derek and he are clear of the danger zone. Then, they're just staring, back to front, as the rest of the second tree comes crashing over the sunken crane. On the other side of the site, Boyd has Scott, who is clutching his leg and torn side. 

Stiles is furious. Derek can feel him trembling with the need for a fight. "You had no right! I could have helped." 

Derek can't even dredge up an apology. "You would've just gotten injured as well. Boyd has him."

"Fuck Boyd. Don't you get it? I could have done something, instead of sitting around watching someone else I care about die!"

"He's not dead." Derek is still gripping Stiles, like he's afraid he'll run straight across the sinkhole between them, to Scott, if he lets him free.

Stiles trembles, "He could be." His voice is all over the spectrum, breaking. 

"He's not. Come on, we'll both get checked out, after Scott."

Stiles doesn't move. Derek is holding him in what could be mistaken for an embrace. "He's okay, Stiles. His boot probably took a lot of the weight." Half-heartedly, he attempts to heckle; "His are even full quality, unlike your discount pink-"

"Well, maybe I'm tired of people dying on me," Stiles interrupts, taking the cue - but not the subject change. "But then, how would you know? It's not like I've told you that my mom died of cancer, while all my dad or I could do was watch."

Derek doesn't realize he's speaking until the words are a memory in his throat, "And it's not like I told you my family died in a fire. All of them. Burned alive." He winces. 

In the rain, and the darkness of the storm, and their familiar rhythm of bickering, it slipped out so easily. He doesn't even feel the usual gut-wrenching urge to slam something sharp into something solid, which led him to logging in the first place. 

He has no idea why he just told Stiles that. He's a bit in shock, maybe. Maybe, he's high on adrenaline and the rush of seeing Scott alive. All of this must be suppressing the negative feelings, along with his brain-to-mouth filter.

"God," Stiles says. Derek finally realizes he's basically hugging Stiles to his chest. He lets go. His skin is too tight. He clears his throat. Stiles is just standing there, frozen, not looking at Derek, or anything in particular. 

"Come on," he says again, but his voice sounds lost, unsure.

"Come on," he manages louder, gruffer, "you might not realize if you're hurt."

Stiles blinks at him. When his gaze clears, he stares at Derek's cheek. He opens his mouth to retort (something is clearly on the tip of his tongue) but closes it again. The curbed reaction lies more heavily between them than any argument they've had over the past months of their acquaintance. 

Stiles still doesn't move. Belatedly, Derek lifts a hand to his cheek where Stiles is staring. It comes away bloody. Derek looks from his hand to Stiles, but he can't think of a single thing to say; snarky or reassuring - neither seems appropriate. "Right, like that," he says.

"Yeah." Stiles must be feeling it as well - this wrongness springing up between them. They look everywhere but at each other for a long minute. Stiles jerks an awkward false start towards him, then out to the first aid trailer. 

Derek follows, hyper-aware of how much space he's giving the other man. It's nothing he's thought about before. Suddenly, everything needs second and third guesses, so unlike their usual easy bickering. 

 

Even though Scott's alive - with only a clean fracture - and Derek's fine after two butterfly bandages, he can't help but feel like everything is wrong. Normally, by now he and Stiles would have found dozens of inconsequential things to argue over; like that time at the diner, when Derek had stayed long after his food was cold, just to get in one last cutting word. But Stiles is being civil to him, and Derek's being civil right back. It's all so wrong.

They barely speak the rest of the evening. Derek says, "Thanks for-"

Stiles says, "No, no no dude, no problem. I mean, glad to-" he waves his hands helplessly, "erm, help." 

Derek leaves, wondering at the painful awkwardness. And pondering what it makes him, that he feels disappointed to have Stiles be polite to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! The feelings! That totally counts...right?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It says a lot about his life, thus far, that Derek has a routine for when the world feels like it's spinning off-axis. First he broods. Actually, that part is pretty much a common factor throughout. In fact, maybe that's just one of the symptoms...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psych! I sorta decided to split my last bit of writing into two chapters. It seemed a better flow to me. I'll post the rest tomorrow after I've done another read through of the last bit.
> 
> For this and the next chapter, I'm back to heavily referencing, quoting and/or remixing gyzym's post that started this whole thing. She has such a fun way with words, guys.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

It says a lot about his life, thus far, that Derek has a routine for when the world feels like it's spinning off-axis. First he broods. Actually, that part is pretty much a common factor throughout. In fact, maybe that's just one of the symptoms...

At any rate when he finds himself wallowing, he goes a little bit native. He chops pile after pile of firewood; shirtless and filthy with dried sweat, bits of bark, sawdust, and plain old dirt. The axe is precise and his blows halve, quarter each piece into near identical sizes. 

He practices springboard chopping, and getting each board perfectly set into the pole he's set up to climb, then he just swings at each side to neatly chop through the top. It burns in his muscles, he can feel it in his shoulders, chest, back; the strain and stretch. He finds a steady, quiet place in his mind where the world levels and he can just breath. 

This sort of work doesn't happen as much as he'd like on the site. He is a lumberjack true, but that mostly means heavy machinery during the day to day, and loading trucks instead of axes or even chainsaws. It requires a constant wariness for the people around him, their actions and the possibility of anything from a minor injury, to a potential tragedy like the one they just narrowly avoided. 

True, here he also stays alert for the presence of someone seeking him out. He even has a 'Men in Trees' sign, Erica painted and presented to him, with a saucy grin. It just doesn't require the same dedicated focus, and he can turn his attention to honing his aim, control and using just the right amount of strength, at just the right angle and placement. 

It quiets the storm inside his mind, keeps his troubles from eating him alive, as they had when he'd first started logging; tired, and heartsore, and so fucking angry every moment, at every thing. 

He's built up a lot of self-worth since those first dangerous jobs, when he was uncaring if a subpar harness snapped, a misplaced cut brought a widow maker down on him, or a skimping boss never followed through on medical and workers compensation. He'd been a minor, and the shittier the employer, the more likely they'd look the other way on his age and experience. He'd 'faked it until he made it.' It had turned out fine - wonderful, in the last few years - but it could've so easily ended badly. 

Logging was a godsend, and still is. Right from the start, it set his blood singing. It means he can breath, deep, uninhibited breaths. He can straighten from the weight on his shoulders, uncoil and just exist. 

And now he has friends, a home entirely his own, and a company that holds respect for nature and conservation, as well as takes care in the safety of it's employees. It has been a long recovery, but he's found peace in the decade and more since he turned his back on the shattered remains of his old life.

The next step of his routine begins the following day. The work site was closed the previous day, Friday, and will be until the ground is dry enough. Otherwise, they risk more such incidents and the trucks can't even make the trip to the yard. Today is his scheduled day off anyway, and tomorrow is Sunday. They may have to work through the next weekend, if conditions allow, to make up the lost time.

This morning, his muscles ache in the best way. On his porch, he stretches in the damp dawn. He uses a mix of yoga poses and tai chi, half remembered from classes he'd taken with Laura, a lifetime ago. He lets the ache in his chest realize and then releases it. He can recall her happy smile as she used to move with him in tandem. His sister had said it made her feel closer to him. It makes him feel close to her now. 

After a hearty breakfast, he heads back outside. He pulls open his shed - built over the course of many such routines, by his own two hands - and shakes the tarp off of the piece he's working on currently. It's a dining table, soon to replace the cheap folding table in his kitchen. 

It's still blocky, bare. Derek hasn't worked on it for some time and he runs his fingers over the pencil marks. He reacquaints himself with the patterns he planned. The sketches are still rolled in a spare tool kit. 

When he's satisfied he remembers the plan, he loses himself in the wood, shaving off bit by bit. The twisting curves take shape under his hands. As he works, the thoughts he's pushed back since the day before filter back into his mind. With the wood under his hands, instead of trying to address anything, he acknowledges his thoughts, worries, anxieties, and continues working. 

By the end of the afternoon, he has the rough shapes carved into each leg and several of the simpler details. Leaping wolves twist around and chase one another up and down the legs. Stepping back, he really sees the shape in three dimensions for the first time. It's more striking than he'd hoped. After the tarp is back in place and the shed secure, he realizes he's starving.

After two days of his routine, he feels human enough for a trip to the diner. His skin feels like it fits him again and his shoulders and neck are loose and solid. Despite that, he still feels too restless to ask anyone to join him.

* * *

Of course, he should have expected to run into Stiles. The diner is the best food in the entire town. Although the steakhouse is a close second, it just doesn't hold the same bizarre mix of kitsch and comfort the diner projects in spades.

Derek doesn't see him until he's already ordered. It's just that Stiles normally has such a _presence_ in a room. It's loud, even when his mouth is (miraculously) closed. Today Stiles is quiet, unnervingly so. His hands are clenched on his knees. His head is ducked, not bobbing to some unheard beat, not rolling sassily on his shoulders - just still. 

It's so wrong, Derek is out and standing in front of the other man's booth, before he can curb the instinct. Belatedly, he realizes he has absolutely nothing to say. 

Stiles flinches but looks up at him reluctantly, trying on a grin that falls flat. "Hey."

"Hey." His brain chooses that moment to realize Stiles' collar is twisted on his outer shirt. Irrationally, Derek wants to smooth it out, maybe tug on the front, so it tightens over surprisingly broad shoulders and- fuck where does that even come from? He decides he needs to break the awkward silence or walk away.

"Sorry about," _'my awkward emotional disclosure?'_ He can't say that though, "And your," _'mother',_ god this is all falling apart. Stiles doesn't need him talking about it, bringing it up again. He just trails off, wishing he'd stayed in his cabin, wishing he could just speak, without worrying he's going to slip and say something insensitive. What if he accidentally says something unforgivable?

Stiles looks at him for a long time, unconsciously leaning forward, until his torso bumps the table edge and he starts back with a small flail. He looks away, as if fascinated with the giant fish mounted on the wall. It is kind of fascinating, but Derek doesn't think he's really seeing it. Derek could mock so many things about this moment. He wants to see that flash of humor in Stiles' eyes, his challenging smile. But all he can think is that this is the longest Stiles has ever been quiet during their acquaintance.

"Yeah," Stiles blurts belatedly, "me too." He peeks at Derek but quickly goes back to studying the fish. Derek's pretty sure it's been here since the diner first opened. The first owner had been a fisherman and apparently had a contact in taxidermy. It's pretty creepy, with glass eyes and a gaping mouth. But after your first few visits, it grows on you like a persistent mold. It barely rates a glance once you're a regular, as Derek and most of the town is. Maybe Stiles has a belated burning curiosity about it. Maybe Derek should get his head out of his ass and stop making Stiles feel the need to stare at some creepy fish, rather than meet his gaze.

He abruptly nods to himself and turns on his heel. Maybe he'll skip dinner and finish carving the table. Margy might let him pay if he tells her he'll pick his food up later. He'll just conveniently 'forget'. Never mind that she'll probably glare at him until he can make it up to her if she thinks he's insulting her husband's food.

"Derek-" he swings back feeling something like hope rise in his throat. Stiles' gaze burns into his for less than a second before the younger man deflates. His eyes fall to his hands, studying them with the same level of fascination he had for the fish. His damn lashes are so thick. Derek doesn't notice his pink cheeks or his bitten, red lower lip, though. Really. "Um - Enjoy your meal?" 

The hope dies - sours to disappointment - but he can hardly leave now. "You too," he grunts shortly and drops himself back into his seat. He can feel his shoulders tightening again. 

He barely tastes his food. He chokes it down only because Margy keeps checking if he needs anything. Stiles is a miserable slumped figure in his own booth. 

Margy darts looks between them but doesn't comment, thank god…until she brings them each a slice of oven-warm, blackberry pie. "Ain't nothing in the world a little bit of sweetness can't fix, boys. You just remember that." She refuses to add it to either of their bills.

They leave with another awkward fumble at conversation, and Derek spends the night obsessively carving each intricate detail into his table. He doesn't sleep until dawn is breaking again over his weathered cabin. 

He stumbles into bed and sleeps until mid-afternoon, when Boyd calls to invite him to watch the game at Erica's bar. He's been wondering if he should return to the beginning of his routine, but there is a heavy knot of misery in his gut that he isn't sure he can unravel on his own. He decides all at once and tells Boyd he'll meet them in a couple hours. 

He spends the time after his shower just soaking up sunshine in his hammock. He wonders when his world became centered around arguing with an infuriating man, with quick, expressive hands and an incorrigible smile. The sun helps warm some of the chill he feels, but he doesn't find any answers.

* * *

It doesn't occur to him that Stiles might be there until he's waiting at the light where he and Stiles spend so much time picking up arguments - left off from the general store, or the work site, or hell, the library, once or twice. Somehow, it always feels as if no time has passed between discussions. 

When the thought finally hits him, he nearly turns back around. But he tells himself he's too old to be avoiding people or places just because Stiles might be there. 

He doesn't acknowledge the fact that he planned to do shopping this weekend, nor that he has a stack of overdue library books next to his door: He's been following his routine. That isn't really the same as avoiding Stiles, because he's avoiding _everyone_. Right?

Besides he would've seen Stiles at the light by now...unless he's coming from the library! His hands are tightening into fists around the steering wheel.

He's thinking it isn't too late to turn around - except, then it is, because the new deputy, Isaac Lahey, is pulling up next to him at the light. 

"Hey, Derek! Going to Erica's?"

Derek grins - maybe a little scarily, if Isaac's expression is anything to go by, "Isaac! That team of yours is going down!" Isaac is from the area of the visiting team and can be counted on for a bit of rivalry trash-talk.

Except, Isaac just grimaces, "Yeah, they suck this year."

Derek deflates, he was hoping for more of an argument. His mind flashes to the debate from last week, about Monty Python. Stiles would've appreciated the reference. And Stiles would've trash-talked with him until they were late for the game. He sighs and tries to ignore that train of thought. "That's too bad. Maybe they're just having a bad year."

Isaac shrugs sadly, but then brightens, "Oh well, if they lose, Erica will bring out the good whiskey."

"Admit it, we're winning you over to the dark side," Derek tries one more time, "soon you'll be rooting for the home team." 

Isaac considers it solemnly, "Well, they win and I live here. So, I guess I'm proud they're doing so well." 

Derek blinks, he can't really be displeased with that answer. He gives up on his hopes for riling the deputy; Isaac is a sweet guy, so it isn't like he actually wants to have a fight with him. He smiles warmly instead, "That's the spirit. You're one of us now."

Isaac blinks and then gives him a blinding smile, "Yeah," he agrees shyly. 

Derek has to smile back, inwardly shaking his head at himself. "Come on, let's get over there." 

 

When they arrive at the bar, they bump shoulders companionably and Derek feels better, despite the lack of arguing. And no, he doesn't want to analyze his brain, ok? 

Stiles isn't there. Scott says something about the inspiration burning, which Derek takes to mean that Stiles' writer's block might finally be broken. Derek wonders if he can still tease Stiles about that, or if he is just a grade-A asshole for even thinking about it.

Poor Scott is on a crutch and banned from drinking. Erica gives him a free order of curly fries in sympathy.

The game is predictable, but they cheer anyway. Erica smirks at him with knowing eyes, but doesn't give him a chance to start any kind of argument with her either. He has no idea what is wrong with him. 

Boyd starts a rousing rendition of _We Are the Champions._ It somehow leads to them singing weird logging songs in a round. Stiles would probably enjoy mocking Derek for leading most of them, since Boyd is shaky on the lyrics. 

When they exhaust their (admittedly) short list (Scott swears he remembers a song about Paul Bunyan and his cow, but he has yet to look it up for them) Erica breaks out more drinks with another secretive grin at Derek. "Speaking of," she says, slamming a drink down in front of him. 

He eyes it with perhaps less suspicion than he should, considering its odd cloudy reddish-brown consistency. But he's three drinks in and distracted, not really sure what's going on with himself. He can be excused for not noticing the intent interest of his friends as he scoops up the shot and throws it back. He chokes but manages to swallow. 

"ERICA!" he roars and then has to grab for the water she's thoughtfully put within reach. "What _was_ that?"

She can't answer right away because she's giggling too hard. Isaac completely cracks up. Scott and Allison are valiantly trying not to laugh. And failing.  
Boyd grins at his girlfriend as she leans over the bar to bury her face in his chest. "Your face!" she cackles. Derek paws at his tongue desperately. "That," she finally manages, "was from Stiles."

Derek stops glaring and sits up suddenly, "What? When did," he swings around to look around the bar, but he finds no sign of his lanky limbs or crowing laugh.

"He paid for it when you both were in here last week," Erica grins, "said you needed a proper lumberjack drink." She goes on to describe the ingredients; which includes maple syrup and tabasco sauce, but Derek hardly hears over his disappointment. The prank was set up before everything had gone wrong.

Boyd sits next to him while the rest of their group is distracted, clamoring to try the drink for themselves and pulling similar reactions. 

"What's up?" Boyd asks plainly. Derek likes how direct his friend always is, but he's damned if he knows how to answer.

"What does it _mean_ when you're sad about not fighting with someone?" he asks miserably, setting his head down on the bar.

Boyd sighs and cups his neck, giving him a soft shake. He's a good friend. "It means you're having a _Feeling_ , Derek, sometimes I really worry about the inside of your head." 

"You're a terrible friend," Derek takes back. He thinks about it for a second, "Me too." He's talking about worrying about the inside of his head. Right now, it's just so _confusing_.

"I know, buddy. I know." Boyd doesn't move his hand. Derek pretends he isn't relieved.

* * *

Scott is high from all the caffeine and sugar he's consumed in lieu of alcohol, and Derek is pretty much drunk, but unwilling to sleep yet. Allison ditches them in her living room. "Thanks for letting me stay," Derek calls after her. 

"Family!" she calls back. She returns with two glasses of water and Scott's pain meds. "In case you need them, baby." Usually when he sees their soft, sickeningly-sweet smiles for each other, Derek just shakes his head fondly, but today it makes his chest hurt for some reason. 

Allison smiles at Derek too, it's a different smile, but a lot of the warmth remains, "We'll pick up your truck in the morning. Don't let Scott keep you up all night."

Scott huffs like a five year old, "I won't, I'm not!" but he's bouncing a little in place, where he's sitting, "It's only ten thirty!" She just kisses him goodnight and retreats up the stairs.

They watch a couple episodes of Firefly, Scott chattering about Allison on and off. Derek sinks deeper and deeper into the couch cushions. Tomato waddles over and hops up onto his lap. Derek pretends not to remember he isn't allowed on the couch and cuddles the dog closer. With his face half buried in Tomato's soft fur he mumbles, "What does it mean when you're sad about not fighting with someone?" then quickly growls, "Don't say it means I'm having a Feeling."

Scott bounces up and down like a pleased puppy, "Bro, that is so weird! Stiles - you know that AWESOME dude you're always talking to - Stiles?" He bounces again, "who is SO AWESOME - we hang out ALL THE TIME! But he totally asked me that same question the other day." Scott regards him with wide eyes, "Are you psychic?" he whispers. 

Derek blinks sleepily at him. Tomato licks his face, while he tries - and fails - to follow all the spiraling thoughts in his head. 

"No, but I'll let you know if it happens," Derek finally answers Scott's eager expression. Scott smiles and bounces again. Now instead of Allison, Scott's chatting about how awesome Stiles is, and how Stiles is going to keep Scott company while Allison is at work this coming week. Derek smiles softly and listens as his eyes grow heavier and heavier.

"Thanks Scott." Tomato curls up on his chest, head tucked right under his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over finals I spent many a night with my final projects up in one monitor and _Swamp Loggers_ , on Netflix, up in the other. Here's the summary from the site: "Bobby Goodson and his rugged crew tackle the challenges of running a business in swamps where most loggers don't dare to venture." It was super fascinating! I had no idea how tough it would be to make a profit, trying to safely do such a dangerous job! 
> 
> It's pretty late, as far as research goes, only doing this now - when I've already established a lot of unrealistic stuff as far as modern-day lumberjacks go. However, I feel like I left some room by being a little vague anyway, so nothing is so blatantly wrong that I'd need to change it. Also, this is a work of fiction, so I can make it ideal. 
> 
> In my mind, Derek's company is a company that can afford to take it's time to be safe, while being green in terms of conservation. It can take care of it's workers when they're hurt and give them days off every now and then. Whether that's because they make more money than your average logging company, or because they're subsidized for being all green, or whatever you guys wanna make up, that's cool with me. 
> 
> This is seriously unbeta'ed... if you find something that makes you twitch, let me know. Ha ha, tenses and run-on sentences, what are those?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lydia says I should just ask you to dinner, and Scott says you’re psychic, but really, I just, I _really_ think you should know that it’s _completely insane_ that you think Holy Grail is better than Life of Brian, like, look at you! You are a dyed-in-the-wool _lumberjack_ , doesn't that automatically mean you have to have _correct_ opinions about Monty Python? _Seriously._ Don't make me sing the song!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion! It's shortish, but it's pretty much just a little removed from the last chapter so they're kind of a two-fer. This was almost written first, definitely I was writing on both parts at the same time. Like I said already, I really love gyzym's rants, so I kept true to a big part of her post for this ending.

Derek still doesn't see Stiles at the general store, or the stop light or Erica's bar for another week. A shrinking, tiny part of him is relieved, the other; deeply dissatisfied by this. Something has to give. 

He finally decides it's time to return his library books, and of course, Stiles is dropping his into the return box as he approaches. His face lights in a wary smile as he spots Derek. Stiles politely holds open the metal door for him and Derek places his on the tray with a quiet thanks. 

They stare at each other for way too long, and Derek's heart feels like it's twisting in his chest, when Stiles just blurts out, "Lydia says I should just ask you to dinner, and Scott says you’re psychic, but really, I just, I _really_ think you should know that it’s _completely insane_ that you think Holy Grail is better than Life of Brian, like, look at you! You are a dyed-in-the-wool _lumberjack_ , doesn't that automatically mean you have to have _correct_ opinions about Monty Python? _Seriously._ Don't make me sing the song!"

Derek feels everything kind of fall into place as he smiles helplessly. He thinks he can be forgiven if his response sounds less growled, than stupidly relieved - mostly because the relief he feels is so profound, he almost can't process it. "You can't possibly think cross-dressing is funnier than the Black Knight."

"Oh - _hell yeah_ I can." Stiles throws his hands in the air. "Of course, you'd empathize with him, you practically said the same thing last week." Stiles scrunches his face up into a frown Derek's forced to assume is an imitation of his own past expression, "'Tis but a scratch.'"

"It _was_ just a scratch." Derek has _missed_ this. Missed this crazy-haired, flailey-limbed guy and - god - his challenging smile. He thinks about Boyd's pronouncement and shakes his head. Stiles opens his mouth to answer but then just kind of launches himself at Derek for a sudden kiss, looking really startled at his own actions. He starts to pull away, but Derek presses into his space for something longer, deeper, scorching. 

After they break apart, Derek makes himself ask, "Do we have to talk about-" he trails off because, what does he say? _'Why we weren't fighting anymore?' 'What you - I -_ we _said?'_

"Oh god no," Stiles declares, "Let's never, ever talk about that - it - the _Feeling_!"

"Did you talk to Boyd?" Derek groans.

Stiles laughs, "You kinda _are_ psychic."

"If I'd been psychic, I'd have told him he was wrong." 

Stiles raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly at Derek's mouth, "Seriously, dude? Which part of this contradicts his conclusion?"

Derek crowds Stiles further back, until he has him pressed against a convenient tree, just because he can. "It's not a _Feeling_ , is it?" He mumbles up against Stiles mouth, "It's _Feelings_ , plural." Derek's surprisingly okay with that and if his response is anything to go by, Stiles is too.

"So, dinner?" Stiles squeaks, about twenty minutes later, "With me?"

Derek considers, "Are you going to subject me to your awful jokes?" But his smile ruins any chances of his question being taken seriously. He's already withdrawing so they can walk to the steak house down the street anyway.

Stiles grins back, bouncing as badly as Scott does on a sugar high. "Oh man, you have no idea! I've been brushing up on my logging terms." He stumbles after Derek, hand still clutching Derek's jacket sleeve. "Okay, which do you want first? The lodge pole one, or the one with the hookers?"

He can't even tell himself he isn't completely content to be walking down the street, arguing about awful puns and - god - the lumberjack song, with this utter lunatic, who is basically chaos-incarnate to Derek's quiet, solitary life. He can't pretend to regret any of it.

He growls back his responses just like he has for weeks and weeks now. The main difference is when he just sort of slips his hand into Stiles'. He doesn't want him tugging his sleeve anymore, that's all.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write. Thanks to all of you who left comments and to everyone who stuck around until the end! Thanks to gyzym for giving blanket permission to run with this idea. Thanks to kalakirya who did a hilarious podfic of gyzym's rant, which is how I found it in the first place.
> 
> Sooo... On another note, should I add a shmexy epilogue...?
> 
> Edit: Epilogue now posted! Click on Part 2 to read it.


End file.
